To taste whole joys
by hoidn
Summary: She makes him feel so much. (Takes place during the night and following morning in 'Goodbye Is Always Implied'.)


**A/N:** it bugged me that we were given no explanation as to why vic ended up at walt's place that night, or why she let him get away with leaving a GAPING STAB WOUND untreated. i'm also not a fan of the morning-after conversation canon gave us, and honestly i just wanted them to have more sex because i'm really happy about it. so that is how this fic happened. i regret nothing.

* * *

 _As souls unbodied, bodies uncloth'd must be,_  
 _To taste whole joys._

 _John Donne, To His Mistress Going to Bed_

...

They're an island of quiet, afterwards.

Vic is stretched, leonine, half on top of him, as though he's territory and she's laying claim. Walt really doesn't mind. He's drifting, unfocused, but still intensely aware of every place they touch. His shoulder is serving as her pillow and he can feel the butterfly brush of her eyelashes when she blinks. The night's been full of these small, mundane marvels.

Their skin is still damp and tacky with sweat where they're pressed together; everywhere else she's velvet. His hands, like pilgrims, wander: across the slope of her shoulder and down the length of her arm, into the bend of her elbow and over the little knob at her wrist. Walt traces the fine bones of her fingers where they're splayed on his chest and the blunt crescent of nail at each tip.

One hand slips down to her thigh where it's hitched along his. He sketches a circle around the damage left by Chance Gilbert's bullet, imagining it infinite, an ouroboros.

Vic tilts her head to look up at him. "That thing is so ugly. I'll never be able to wear shorts again."

His fingers smooth across the shiny, slightly raised flesh. "It's not ugly."

She snorts and makes a face.

"This means you're still alive, Vic. You healed." Walt shifts and rolls them slightly to the side so he can curl up, press his lips against the scar. "It's beautiful," he says as he lies down again. "No matter what it looks like."

In the yellow light of his bedroom her eyes are amber, holding him captive. She traces the tips of her fingers delicately over his eyebrows, the line of his nose, his lips. Her face is unguarded, naked with feeling.

"I love you," she says in a voice that's barely more than breath.

The sweetest ache constricts his throat.

Overwhelmed, Walt kisses the edge of her thumb where it rests at the corner of his mouth. "I love you," he says, offering up to her at last this great, terrible truth he's tried to run from, tried to ruin. The weight of it lifts from his bones and he feels free from gravity; untethered by any force but her; in terrified, exhilarating flight.

Vic's smile is swift and glorious, like the blaze of a shooting star. She kisses him softly, tenderly, and he's intoxicated again by the lush red haven of her mouth, the landscape of her warm, bare skin. Infused by a greedy hunger, he pulls her fully atop him. Her back arches when she presses her hips into his, drawing a needy sound from his throat.

Their kisses grow deeper, wilder, until they're not even kissing anymore, just panting against each other's mouths. She rises, exposing the vulnerable length of her throat, and Walt rears up to claim the delicate flesh with his teeth. He's desperate to get inside her, be part of her, be consumed. Lifting her by the hips, he pushes her up and away, feels a mild suck and sting at his abdomen. It barely registers against the clawing need but Vic looks down and her face transforms with horror.

She scrambles off him. "Jesus, Walt, you're bleeding."

"I'm fine," he says, as his baffled hands try to pull her back.

"You're not fucking fine. Please tell me you have a first aid kit or something."

He pushes up on one elbow and looks at the red smears on both of them blankly. "Uh."

"Of course you don't," she mutters, reaching to grab her jeans from the floor. When she stands and yanks them up over her hips, there's nothing underneath. Walt sits up and wipes ineffectually at the blood, succeeding only in spreading it around. It mixes with the sweat that coats his skin: his sweat and Vic's combined. The thought is transfixing; it loops in his mind as he watches Vic pull her tank top over her head, still talking.

"Okay, new rule. You will buy a basic first aid kit and you will keep it stocked." She sits down to pull on her boots. The sight of the marks on her shoulders from his fingers does something primal to him. He wants to lick them, her, anywhere, all over. "And you will actually treat and dress any wounds you manage to acquire — because I know it's too much to expect you to go to a hospital like a normal person."

Vic's standing now, hands on her hips. She's not wearing a bra. "Despite how macho that thing with the vodka was, it's actually a shitty way to treat a wound. You could get an infection. Or end up making it worse, which, in case you hadn't noticed, you seem to be pretty good at anyway."

She's glaring at him, every inch of her righteously indignant, but all Walt can think is _I want you so much_. He swallows with difficulty. "Okay."

It earns him an eye roll and then she's stomping out of the bedroom. "I'm getting the kit from the Bronco. Don't do anything stupid or I'll stab you again myself," she yells.

It's not really that bad, he thinks, prodding at his belly. The fresh bleeding has almost stopped. He gets up and finds his underwear, slides them on, and shakes his head a little at his unruly body. With Vic out of the immediate vicinity, some of the muzziness clears from his thoughts. She'd wanted him to go to the hospital earlier, but he'd refused. They'd compromised by letting the EMTs clean him up at the scene. Vic had then insisted that she was driving him home because he couldn't be trusted not to pass out from blood loss. He'd agreed to that easily, though wound care had been the least of his reasons.

For the first time Walt considers it from her perspective. He thinks of the night she was shot and the obscenity of her blood pumping out over his hands; how it had clung to his clothes and skin, embedded itself under his fingernails; and the icy, strangling terror he'd felt through it all. If Vic were the one who'd been stabbed today he would've hauled her to Durant Regional by force if necessary. He has to admit that a little basic first aid hardly seems like much for her to ask.

The front door slams and then she's back, thrusting a bottle of water into his hands. "Drink. You need fluids."

Swallowing the first mouthful makes him realize how thirsty he is and he gulps down half the bottle. When he sets it on the bedside table Vic jabs a finger at him. "Lie down."

Walt obeys in silence, feeling a little ridiculous with his still-obvious erection. She rounds the bed with the first aid kit, kicks off her boots. Her touch on his abdomen is gentle and cautious, not intended to arouse. His heart speeds up anyway. She cleans away the blood with antiseptic wipes and uses butterfly strips to pull the wound closed. Then she dabs the edges with antibacterial ointment and covers it all with a gauze pad. It's the kind that doesn't adhere on its own, and he watches her cut strips of tape with her sharp, white teeth and apply them with neat, precise movements.

It shouldn't be erotic, but it is. There might be something wrong with him.

Vic smoothes the tape down on the last edge with her thumb, head bowed. Her breath hitches and he feels something warm drop onto his skin. All his dizzy arousal vanishes.

He touches her cheek and says, "Hey."

Turning her head away, she wipes her face with the back of one hand. "I'm fine."

Walt sits up and puts everything back into the kit before setting it on the floor. "C'mere," he says, and guides her to lie down beside him. She curls into him and he pulls her close, one hand stroking slowly up and down her back. "It's okay," he whispers into her hair. "Everything's okay."

She shakes a little and clutches him, face pressed against his throat. An ache radiates from the center of his chest. He'd take this from her, bear it for her, if he could: this mix of delayed reaction and exhaustion. The way fear transmutes into anger and back again.

Maybe they shouldn't have started this thing tonight but Walt's not sure he could've stopped it, even if he'd wanted to. This is the direction they've always been heading, no matter how many side roads they both tried to take. And there's no room left in him for regret. So he holds Vic until her breathing evens out, until the rise and fall of her chest is matched to his.

It's a while before she leans her head back to look at him.

"Sorry," she says with a sniff.

He strokes the wisps of hair from her face, grateful that she trusts him with this part of herself. "Nothing to be sorry for."

With a soft exhalation she turns her cheek into his hand. "Bad day."

He makes an assenting noise, fascinated by the perfect curve of her eyebrow, her delicate little ear.

"Parts of it were pretty good, though," she adds.

There's a tiny smile hovering at the corner of her mouth. He can't help but kiss it. "Uh huh."

She smiles at him fully then, and it's the new smile, the one he'd never seen before tonight. He cups his hand around the nape of her neck and slides his fingers up into her hair. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs.

They should probably eat, he thinks. Neither of them have had anything since lunch. They could both use a shower, as well. But his body feels pleasantly lethargic and he's not really hungry. And weighed against the sweetness of lying here with Vic in his arms, neither food nor hygiene seems very important.

"Do you want something to sleep in?" he asks quietly. She's still wearing her jeans.

"Are you trying to get me naked again?"

"Yes."

Vic laughs and rolls onto her back, giving him a mischievous look. "I'll keep that in mind." She gets up to wriggle out of her jeans—a process he finds very compelling—then tugs her underwear back on and freezes.

"Shit," she says in a small voice, looking down at her stomach.

Concerned now, he sits up. "What's wrong?"

"Your blood. I've got your blood on me."

 _Oh._

Walt's by her side in seconds, taking her hands and making her look at him. Her eyes are wide and wet, shadowed with remembered fear. "It's okay," he tells her. "There's plenty more where that came from."

She gives him a wobbly smile and nods. "Yeah."

"We'll wash it off," he says, and she nods again.

The first aid kit is out of wipes, so he leads her into the bathroom. Vic leans against the sink while it fills with warm water, holding the edge of her tank top up under her breasts. He dips a cloth in the basin and works it with soap. The thin layer of dried blood on her skin loosens easily under the friction of the cloth. Dark little flecks flake off into the white lather like rust.

It feels symbolic to him, this cleansing. An act of penance and worship in one.

When all the blood is rinsed away, Walt dries her gently with a towel. He can't help trailing his fingers over her lightly pinked skin. The only sounds he can hear are her quick, shallow breaths and his own thudding heart. Her pulse beats swiftly in the notch at her throat and he touches her there to feel its rhythm.

She's watching him with darkened eyes, her pupils blown wide. The air between them grows humid and heavy with promise as he looks back at her. It's only recently that he's allowed himself to acknowledge and name what he reads on Vic's face. Desire, vulnerability. Love.

The towel falls unnoticed to the floor as he pulls her closer. They kiss gently, slowly, until she rises up on her toes to press harder into him, and he feels the slide of her tongue against his in every cell of his body.

It's not enough.

He tugs at the hem of her tank top and she raises her arms for him to strip it away. Then he just stares at her, standing in his bathroom, pale and luminous as the moon.

"God, you're beautiful," he says in a low voice. "You're so beautiful, Vic."

A lovely flush blooms in her cheeks and she bites her lip, looks down. Then she's reaching for him, dropping kisses like blessings, like rain, on his face. They soak through his cracks, the parched earth inside him, and break him wide open. Her soft, generous mouth finds his, and the last calcified knot of pain he's been carrying loosens and dissolves.

He feels— _god_ —he feels so much; she makes him feel so much, this woman who stormed into his life all mouth and swagger. Whose sheer tenacity and dogged persistence hauled him out of the burrow he'd made from grief and guilt and beer cans. She's a bright ribbon winding through him and stitching up the ragged places, making them new.

His palms cup her face, her shoulders, her breasts. Walt tries to tell her with his lips and hands what he can't find words to say. How much he admires her. How brave she is, how compassionate and clever. That his battered, beating, joyous heart is hers. But it gets tangled up with her tongue in his mouth and her skin everywhere against his. Then she guides his hand past the soft cotton of her underwear and she's so gorgeously wet he can't think at all.

With his thumb against her clit, he slips one, then two fingers inside her, feels her tighten around them, hears the sounds she's making, little sobbing gasps; and then she's coming, arching and trembling against him, and it's incredible, he can't look away.

For a long moment he's entranced, just awed and breathing, until Vic grabs the back of his neck and kisses him hot and filthy. Suddenly it's frantic. They're fumbling urgently with each other as if they hadn't just done this less than an hour ago, somehow clumsier this time. She braces her arms behind her and he lifts her onto the lip of the sink. Something falls, shatters, barely registering. His underwear is shoved down just far enough, hers dangles from one leg, and then she's wrapping around him, and he's pushing in, gasping.

The tight, wet heat of her is so intense it's almost unbearable. She's molten, quicksilver, her eyes the only fixed point that exists as she turns him inside out. Rough, helpless sounds spill out of him as they collide and fall, straining against one another. It's sloppy and arrhythmic and it should be terrible, but within what feels like seconds Vic is clenching down on him and moaning _fuck, Walt, oh fuck_ , and he loses it like a kid with no control, hips jerking as his orgasm whites out the world.

...

In the morning, he wakes first. He's lying on his side, facing Vic, who's sprawled on her stomach, spread across easily two thirds of the mattress.

The sheer force of his happiness could split him apart.

Long blonde strands of hair have draped themselves over her nose and mouth, stirring when she exhales. Walt doesn't want to wake her but he can't help reaching out to gently brush them back. A quiet noise like a question comes from her throat and her eyes blink open.

"Hi," she says softly.

"Hey."

Then she smiles and it might be a little shy. Her nose crinkles and she presses her face deeper into the pillow. "What time is it?"

"Almost seven."

"How's the hole in your belly?"

"It's fine."

The truth is he hasn't even thought about it.

A yawn interrupts her skeptical look. She's adorable, but he's not foolish enough tell her that.

"You can go back to sleep if you want."

In response Vic inches closer, tucking her head under his chin and aligning their bodies so her entire length is pressed against him. Her toes scrape lightly down one of his shins.

Then she giggles.

He's a little embarrassed but mostly amused because, really, what does she expect? It's morning and she's beautiful and naked in his bed.

Of course his dick is interested.

In retaliation he dances his fingers along her side until she lets out a shriek and jerks away. They wrestle for a minute before he gets her pinned under him, laughing and flushed and breathless.

"Okay, you win," she says. "But only because you cheated." He raises his eyebrow at her and she just grins. "Next time your ass is mine."

Walt ducks his head and blows a raspberry on her neck.

She squeals and tries to twist away, but he still has her wrists pinned to the bed. "No playing dirty," she protests, with the remnants of laughter in her voice.

"Yes ma'am," he agrees, mock serious, nuzzling her hair.

Her scent is everywhere, all over his pillows, his sheets, him. She smells good; they smell good together.

His mouth drifts to the downy line of her jaw, feathering kisses up to her ear. He nips her perfect little lobe with his teeth and sucks a kiss into the hollow behind it. She arches her neck with a soft sound as he brushes his lips down the column of her throat.

Her skin gleams faintly in the morning light as he mouths his way across her clavicles, her shoulders, as much of her sternum as he can reach, then raises his head to press his lips against her eyelids, the bridge of her nose, the point of her chin.

Vic shifts restlessly under him and her trapped hands grasp at nothing. "Let me touch you," she murmurs, pulling against his hold.

If she touches him he'll never last. He lets go of her wrists to slide his hands up over hers, clasping. "Not yet."

At her noise of frustration, Walt lifts himself slightly and releases her legs from underneath his. She hums with satisfaction and sets her feet behind his knees, pressing him back down to where she's hot and wet and open.

His eyes slip closed at the sensation.

She rolls her hips up and he slides against her with a gasp; she's so slick that the motion is easy, almost effortless. He opens his eyes to watch her as he does it again, more deliberately. Her breath catches. Once more and she whimpers.

With a slow, measured pace he starts rocking against her so that just the tip of his cock is gently nudging her clit, over and over.

It's not long before she's straining, trying to lift her hips, to tilt them, trying to change the angle, the rhythm. But he's stronger and heavier and he gives her no purchase.

"Goddamn it, Walt— go faster, I can't—"

Her feet push on the backs of his thighs, his ass, and her fingers are clamped around his, nails scoring his skin.

"Fuck, please— please, I—"

Watching her, feeling her, is wildly exciting. She's beautiful and ferocious, her teeth bared in a feral snarl like she wants to tear out his throat; and yet she's clutching him, fighting for more, getting softer and hotter and wetter with every movement.

He wants it to go on forever.

When she comes it's with sharp, staccato cries, her shoulders arched up off the bed. The way he feels her orgasm is amazing: like a long, rolling wave pulsing against him. He keeps rocking with her until all her taut lines ease and she sinks back to the mattress, panting.

"Oh my fucking god," she breathes.

Walt lets go of her hands to wrap his arms underneath her and drop his head down next to hers. "Good?" he asks her temple, her sweaty hairline.

"Mmm..."

He smiles into her hair.

Her hand rises and she slaps at his shoulder weakly. "Shut up."

"I didn't say anything."

"I can hear you being smug."

He laughs and kisses her, sour morning breath and all, feeling _present_ in a way he's unused to with anyone else; he never wants to move from this moment.

Vic looks up at him with sleepy, satisfied eyes and smiles in a predatory way. "Now it's my turn."

"I thought that was your turn."

Her only response is to stretch languidly underneath him, every inch of her warm skin brushing his. A strangled grunt escapes him as his body remembers its own animal urgency, how close it is to what it wants.

With a spark of challenge in her eyes, she licks her bottom lip, then lets it catch on her teeth to slide out plump and wet and red. Walt almost comes right then and there.

She undulates beneath him, winding herself around him limb by limb, and brings him impossibly closer. Her hair is spread out on the pillow like a corona, and she smiles — a beneficent goddess — as she guides him inside her.

"Oh, Vic," he whispers, dizzy, tumbling, completely still.

Her strong internal muscles begin to ripple around his cock, gripping and releasing like the rise and fall of the tide. He's trapped by her thighs clenched around his hips and her calves pressing him tight against her. Lust-addled and paralyzed by pleasure, all he can do is let her pull the slender thread of control through his unresisting fingers.

A raw sound tears from his throat as it slips completely free.

"That's it," she says, holding him with her body, with her eyes. "Just let go."

He's powerless to deny her. With a ragged, desperate groan, he comes.

Then it's quiet but for the harsh sound of his breathing. Vic cards her fingers through his hair and the gentle scratch of her nails against his scalp raises goosebumps on his skin. He shivers and wonders when he closed his eyes. Opens them.

Her smile is sweet with just a hint of triumph.

"You fight dirty, too," Walt mumbles and she laughs.

Feeling boneless and unwieldy, he tries to shift some of his weight off of her, but she holds him fast with a noise of protest.

"No, not yet. I like you here."

Such a simple thing to steal away his breath.

This woman and all her staggering, unlooked-for grace.

"Vic," he says, chest constricted, throat burning with words unsaid. And he means _I love you_ ; and he means _thank you for not giving up on me_.

She lies in his arms, in the sunshine coming through the window that paints her golden. She takes his face in her hands and studies him, her gaze so achingly open, sees him whole and doesn't flinch.

"Walt," she says against his lips, more shape than sound or breath.

And he knows what she means is _me too_.

[END]

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 **A/N:** do not take my word for how to diy care for a stab wound as i am not a medical professional of any sort. (that said, dude obviously should've gotten stitches.) constructive criticism is always welcome.


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